


Dressed to Impress

by MofBaskerville



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mystrade Fanworks Fest, Promptfic, halloween fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 11:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MofBaskerville/pseuds/MofBaskerville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based in part on this unclaimed prompt from the Mystrade Fanworks Festival: "Mycroft and Lestrade both have makeovers to impress the other. Then they realise the other liked them just the way they were."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressed to Impress

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!

It was a banner day in the Commonwealth of Great Britain. A day that would live in infamy. A day for the ages, for the record books. A day that would surely be written in the annals of history.

 

It was The Day Sherlock Holmes Was Rendered Absolutely Speechless.

 

For about two minutes.

 

Mycroft Holmes watched his little brother do an impression of a dying fish and forced himself not to fidget. If _this_ was the worst he could expect as far as reaction, he'd be content, indeed.

 

Besides: It wasn't _Sherlock_ he was trying to impress.

 

Besides, The Second: Sherlock rarely liked _anything_.

 

Besides, The Third: The bloke at Harvey Nichols had said he looked dashing. _Dashing_.

 

So there now. Sherlock could take his slack-jawed stare and shove it up his –

 

“Mycroft,” the younger Holmes breathed, blue eyes round with shock. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

 

“Exaggeration ill becomes you, Sherlock.” Mycroft glanced at his new watch, adjusting it slightly as the band was chafing his wrist somewhat. “I simply have opted for a different style. It's not altogether unheard of.”

 

“It is when you look like a rather poor caricature of David Bloody Beckham!”

 

One side of Mycroft's mouth twisted into a grin.

 

“As even a 'poor caricature' of Mr. Beckham could be said to be a very attractive man, indeed, I'll take that as a compliment. Thank you.”

 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Just _how_ hard did you hit your head on that lamppost in Tel Aviv?”

 

“As I said, brother, I desired change.” Mycroft looked down at his attire. If Sherlock despised it, maybe he was on to something. “Perhaps you'd do as well to consider shaking things up a tad? Hmmm … perhaps a new shirt? Though I admit the purple suits you to the ground.”

 

“You've gone mad.”

 

Sherlock stalked into the kitchen of 221B and began banging things about in an attempt to make tea. Mycroft's smile vanished and he looked down at himself once more, feeling a bit less confident.

 

The pullover was fine, though the blue jeans were a bit snug, though the gentleman at Harvey Nick's assured him that “it's how they're wearing them these days, and you do fill them out nicely.” The man couldn't have been older than Sherlock and his flirting had gotten rather wearisome, but Mycroft was too far gone in his mission to care. He'd been determined to try this out. It had been a long time in coming, after all, and all of his subtle hints had not done the trick.

 

It had taken him a moment to reason it out, but Mycroft hit upon what he felt the problem must be – as well-cut and well-tailored as his suits were, they had become something of a neutral background. He was simply Mycroft-in-a-suit. Standard. Invisible.

 

Dull. So very dull.

 

If there was one thing Mycroft had discovered in all of his years of acquaintance with Gregory Lestrade, it was that he didn't _do_ dull – in any sense of the word.

 

If he wanted to catch _his_ attention, he was going to have to shake things up a bit. Try something new. Be _someone_ new. And what better way than to alter the outside just a tad?

 

The stubble, though, which was what had robbed his little brother of the ability to speak for some moments, had been an honest accident.

 

Late nights trying to puzzle out the “Libya situation” and keep it from destabilizing this Arab Spring that was sweeping the Middle East had left Mycroft enervated. It was rare that he didn't stumble into his flat at the end of long, wearying conference calls and kip right on the couch, in his suit, mobile in hand in case of a sudden conflagration. Basic hygiene he could keep up with, but he decided he couldn't be arsed to do a proper shave. The auburn shadow at the lower half of his face had startled him at first, but after a day or two, he'd gotten used to it, though it was completely incongruous with his sober, serious suits. Anthea had actually stopped tapping away at her Blackberry when she'd first spotted him and he noticed that she was sitting a bit closer to him in the car lately.

 

That aside, it had given him an idea. A full beard would be professorial. A goatee was almost unbearably modern and pretentious. But the stubble made him look a like a ruffian … dangerous … a bit like the bloke you could imagine grabbing a motorbike and running off with the farmer's daughter –

 

 _Ah … I'm mixing metaphors there, I think_.

 

So Mycroft had decided to experiment with the look a bit. His current wardrobe wouldn't do for what was going on with his visage. He'd noticed that most men who sported stubble tended to dress down Quite a _bit_ down. Just leaving off his pocket watch and cufflinks had made him feel almost naked. When he'd foregone the waistcoat, he was sure he'd be arrested for public indecency. That was when he'd decided on a sojourn to Harvey Nick's, sure that he'd get properly sorted there.

 

“When did you say DI Lestrade would be stopping in?” called Mycroft. “I have a teleconference with the leadership of Hamas in two hours.”

 

The curly head peered from around the doorjamb. “The only reason that I'm not throwing you out, Mycroft, is that I cannot _wait_ for Lestrade to see you in this monstrosity. I almost wish I could spare the space on my phone to take pictures.”

 

Mycroft sneered at his brother, but he pulled discreetly at his new pullover and felt sweat beading up on the back of his neck. Sherlock could be an annoying twat, but rarely was he ever mistaken. But Gregory surely wouldn't _laugh_ at him, would he?

 

He sank into John's armchair with a sigh. What had he been thinking? This was _Lestrade_ , a man completely confident and comfortable in his own skin. He'd see through this facade in moments, and he'd be utterly put off, looking at him with contempt – or worse, pity. Mycroft would have at least gone to shave if asking Sherlock for shaving things would not have provoked floods of derisive laughter from his little brother.

 

With dread, he waited for the inevitable.

 

* * *

 

 “I look a right git, don't I? That's why you're being so quiet, yeah?”

 

“No! It's just … it's a bit different from what your usual look, that's all.”

 

Greg Lestrade glanced sideways at Dr. John Watson. The younger man was squirming a little bit, and it seemed that he was trying to fight a smile. Greg considered telling the cab to stop so he could jump out, turn the other way, and jump into the Thames or something.

 

Instead, he simply smoothed his hand over the soft material of his trousers and readjusted his suit jacket.

 

“Come on, give over. I'm a copper, you know. I can tell when someone's lying.”

 

“I'm _not_ lying, Greg. Really.” John turned his mild eyes toward the detective. “It's just … well, it's a different style for you. I'll get used to it. I suppose we all will.”

 

“But is it different _bad_?” persisted Lestrade. “I mean, Sally wolf-whistled at me today, and one of the chits in Legal tried to slip me her mobile number.”

 

“So that should answer your question, shouldn't it?”

 

Lestrade sighed. Maybe it would have under other circumstances. He wasn't exactly trying to impress women, however. Hell, he wasn't even trying to impress other men.

 

He was trying to impress a _Holmes._ And not just any Holmes – the very one who had entire nations in the palm of his hand.

 

Greg wasn't sure when his irritation and slight fear turned to … whatever it was now … but there it was, full-fledged and growing every time he saw the aristocratic redhead. Since John had come on the scene, his “private audiences” had markedly decreased, much to Greg's annoyance. He'd finally worked up the courage to chat the git up and now he barely saw him, unless Sherlock was embroiled in something that touched on national security or the sort of top-level shenanigans that Greg didn't have high-enough clearance to investigate.

 

He had to, therefore, make every moment count.

 

The last time he'd come into contact with Mycroft Holmes, however, he'd not cut the most dashing of figures. Yes, the fact that he'd just slopped through a particularly gruesome crime scene hadn't helped, but Greg blushed to think of how grotty he'd looked, even without the bloodstains spotting his trousers. He was a fucking Detective Inspector, for pity's sake. There was no dress code to speak of, but he was expected to keep a reasonably smart appearance.

 

Lestrade tried his best, but his suits seemed shabby in comparison to Mycroft's bespoke masterpieces. He hadn't had a new pair of shoes in yonks, and he couldn't be arsed in the mornings to iron his shirts, especially after getting frantic texts from Donovan that a corpse had been found with its brains spattered all over the inside of a Sainsbury's. He knew that the Chief Inspector wouldn't ding him for what he wore, but he wasn't looking to shag _him,_ either.

 

The suit had cost his entire paycheck of a week and part of the next one, but Greg figured it was a nice investment.

 

Besides: It could always be used as the suit he wore whenever he was forced to go to the Old Bailey.

 

Besides, The Second: John was in love with a man who wore purple shirts. What did he know, anyway?

 

Besides, The Third: When the final fitting had come, the bloke at King & Allen had said he looked distinguished. _Distinguished._

 

Greg fancied that it would have to be a distinguished bloke that would turn Mycroft's head. Someone who fit seamlessly at his side, who wore three-piece finery and old-fashioned watches and pocket squares that were almost never used. Someone who _didn't_ slog around in trousers frayed at the cuffs.

 

“Sherlock said _Mycroft_ was coming to Baker Street for tea?” asked Lestrade, trying to sound casual. “That's unusual, innit? They're usually at it like cats and dogs after five seconds in the same room.”

 

“I know. I think Mycroft is dropping off a file he needs Sherlock to look into,” said John.

 

He glanced up at Greg's head, started to speak, but clamped his mouth shut and turned away. Greg caught the movement and he sighed.

 

“ _What_? That's the third time you've looked up at me like that. What is it? Something in my nose?”

 

“No. Just ...” The blue eyes peered upward. “I don't think I've ever seen your hair so … controlled.”

 

Lestrade grimaced. “Was it always like a bird's nest before, then? Thanks so much for letting me know.”

 

“That's not what I meant –” John's eyes narrowed. “Wait. Is it _darker_? Or is that just product?”

 

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe I touched it up a little. Not much. I'm not trying to be Richard Armitage or anything.”

 

“Oh.” There was a great deal of meaning packed into that one syllable, and Greg flinched. “Right. Well it looks … nice. Different.”

 

Greg stared forlornly out the window. Once, his ex-wife had said that he'd look years younger if he colored his hair. It had never occurred to him to do so; it was messy and time-consuming and difficult to keep up. But now as a single bloke on the prowl, as it were, he wondered if it might not be a good idea to try it out. Not completely, as it would look much too artificial, but maybe a bit less silver. Still enough to look somewhat his age.

 

Mycroft was younger than himself, almost by a decade, and he didn't have a strand of grey in that beautiful auburn hair. Greg reckoned that the elder Holmes might go for him if he looked a bit more current and less like a tired, divorced copper who was swiftly becoming past-it. And whose idea of a proper suit rarely included a tie, and never, ever included a waistcoat.

 

A great deal more deflated than he'd been when he and John had departed New Scotland Yard, Greg bit the inside of his cheek as the cab rounded the corner and turned on to Baker Street.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock? Are you home?”

 

Mycroft stood as the footsteps on the stair came closer. He frowned – there was only one set of footfalls, and the voice was obviously John's. Had Lestrade been called away on a case, then? He gave the jeans another sharp tug as the door burst open.

 

“Sherlock? Oh, hullo … _Mycroft_?” John goggled at the government official. “I … wow.”

 

“John.” Mycroft nodded genially. “I had thought the Detective Inspector would be with you. I had wanted him to give his opinion on this small matter I'm entrusting to you and my brother.”

 

John was staring, but with effort he got himself together.

 

“Oh. Yeah. He'll be up in a moment. He was paying the cab. You look … um. Nice. Are you growing a …?” He made a gesture toward his face.

 

“Not as such, no.” Mycroft kept a friendly smile on his face, but his voice was wary. “Does it suit me?”

 

“ – Like a communicable disease,” drawled Sherlock, as he brought in tea things. “Do tell my brother how utterly ridiculous he looks, John.”

 

“He doesn't look utterly ridiculous –”

 

“Oh, only slightly ridiculous?” Sherlock's eyebrow went up. “Very well.”

 

“Shut it,” said John grumpily. “It's a different look for you, Mycroft. I think the stubble _does_ suit you. The jeans, too.”

 

Mycroft had the distinct pleasure of seeing his little brother's face fall in on itself like an underdone cake.

 

“Why _thank_ you, John.”

 

“Seems to be the season for people trying out new looks,” said John, grabbing a cup and sitting in his armchair, pointedly ignoring Sherlock when he turned away and stormed to pout petulantly out the window. “Lestrade's trying out something different, too.”

 

Mycroft frowned slightly, intending to ask John exactly what he meant by that, when the man himself walked in.

 

“Bloke didn't have change of a oner, and I didn't have anything smaller ...”

 

Greg stopped when he caught sight of Mycroft. For his part, the elder Holmes was glad he'd not taken a teacup, for he might have spilled the contents on his new jeans.

 

“Detective Inspector.”

 

Lestrade's eyes widened as he looked the tall man over. “Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Um.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Sherlock whirled around, and took a sharp inward breath.

 

“Oh. My. God.” He clutched his head, as if in pain. “ _You besotted fools_. Can this _possibly_ get any more ridiculous?”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“John, really. All they need now is to mark each other with their scents,” said Sherlock, his lip wrinkling in distaste. “Rather like dogs. There are many people who are into that sort of activity, by the way. I've done research. On your laptop, of course.”

 

“You … _that's_ how that virus got on there!” John's face suffused red. “It corrupted most of my draft blog files!”

 

“I don't suppose it was much of a loss, John ...” began Sherlock, before being shouted down by an indignant John, yelling about privacy, passwords, and: “God, you downloaded _pictures_ of it, didn't you?”

 

“Video, actually. It was fascinating to compare age, physical build and the force with which the stream –”

 

At that point, the argument became somewhat heated, and Mycroft motioned to Lestrade.

 

“I think, Detective Inspector, that our tea time might be spent more productively elsewhere,” he said in a low voice.

 

“Well said. Might be quieter in the Baskerville minefield,” said Lestrade. “There's a caf right downstairs.”

 

“Yes. I've had the _displeasure_.” Mycroft paused. “My car is idling down the street. There's a tea room off Covent Garden that is very nice. Shall we?”

 

“Works for me.”

 

They walked out at the apex of the argument, just as Sherlock was listing, quite unnecessarily, the many sexual activities that utilized bodily fluids other than semen in which many people partook, but didn't even realize.

 

“He's in fine form,” sighed Mycroft as they emerged from 221B. “John should really know better by now.”

 

“I think he just forgets,” murmured Lestrade, sneaking glances at Mycroft's attire. God, but he looked fit in those jeans. They were tight, to be sure, but they fit snugly in all the right places. _All_ of them.

 

“You could be right.” Mycroft was a little more obvious in his admiration of Greg's attire. He looked thinner, slightly taller, and utterly delectable. The color was very nice, too. The deep color brought out the golden flecks in his eyes.

 

“I do like your suit, Detective Inspector. King & Allen does produce some fine merchandise.”

 

“How did you ...”

 

“They always cut their lapels a bit more narrow than other Savile Row tailors.” Mycroft shrugged. “It's something of a trademark.”

 

“Oh. Right. Well, thanks.” Greg smiled a bit as the car pulled up. “I just thought … a change, you know?”

 

“Yes. I understand completely.” Mycroft held the door for the detective, climbing in and giving the driver a few terse directions. “Change often is good.”

 

Greg's eyes roamed the jeans again. “Can't argue there. Are you, uh, growing a …?” He made the same gesture over his face that John had done earlier.

 

“Well, no. I think I'd look rather … strange with a beard.”

 

“I dunno. I think it'd be nice on you. Anderson had a beard once and it made him look a like a prat. Not that he needs help with that,” said Lestrade. “But I do admit that I've gotten used to you clean-shaven. That looks good, too.”

 

Mycroft was glad of the relative darkness of the car. The problem with being a pale, freckled ginger was that blushes showed so easily.

 

“I think I will shave sooner rather than later.” He looked at the detective. “Your hair is … different.”

 

Lestrade's eyes dropped. “Poncey, you mean.”

 

“No. Simply different. It's very smart.” Mycroft hesitated a moment. “I do rather prefer your more … unstructured look. And your natural color.”

 

“Oh.” Greg squirmed a little, feeling somewhat embarrassed “Is it that obvious? The color, I mean. The box said it'd be a 'subtle change.'”

 

“I'd say it is so, but the silver suits you so much more.”

 

Lestrade's eyes widened. _Wait. He called it silver. Not grey. Silver. Like a precious metal ... okay, maybe that's not how he meant it, but silver's a lot better than grey, anyway._

 

"Really? You think so?"

 

“Oh yes.”

 

There was a short stretch of silence, and several more sideways, longing glances.

 

“D'you, uh, would you maybe like to rubbish the tea for today?” Greg tried to run his fingers through his hair, but had to settle for running his hand over the stiff strands. “Maybe we could grab a drink after work? Or dinner?”

 

Mycroft waited to answer until he was sure that his voice would not do something so banal and inconvenient as waver and crack. Just to be on the safe side, he cleared his throat before speaking.

 

“I would enjoy dinner very much.”

 

“Good. Great!” A smile stretched Lestrade's face. “Is Japanese okay?”

 

“Perfect.” Mycroft redirected the driver to New Scotland Yard. "That will give me chance to go home and change into something more suitable."

  
"Hold a minute." Greg hesitated just a moment before putting his hand gently on the younger man's knee. "Shave if you want, but the jeans? They stay."


End file.
